


how would you know? (this ragamuffin wants to follow you home)

by mr_charles



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 18:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mr_charles/pseuds/mr_charles
Summary: Jim Hopper has a teenage daughter to raise.Except this little girl is a psychic warrior prone to nightmares that cause lights to flicker.(domestic AU)





	1. Chapter 1

The key to the duplex is heavy in Hopper’s sweaty palm. The building itself is older and an unappealing shade of yellow. The subdivision is small and shares parking space with the gas station its seated behind. 

But it’s his home now. And El’s.

( _Jane_ is heavy on both of their tongues, unfamiliar and odd)

(if anyone asks, Eleanor is her middle name and she prefers the nickname to Jane)

(nobody will ask)

The bathroom allows weak sunlight to filter in through a thick, warped glass window. There are three light fixtures in his bedroom and two in hers, along with large windows all over the house that never seem to shut light out completely. 

No more shadows to hide in. 

El’s dark eyes are bright as she plugs in their new TV (24 inches; a goddamn movie screen in Hop’s mind) and he has a flitting thought of trying to get her into books or sports so she’s not spending all day in front of that rot box. 

He has a rule that she’s not allowed to use her powers to help them unpack. She pouts and crosses her arms defensively but unfolds herself from the couch, pushing the sleeves of Nancy Wheeler’s old sweater up her arms as she pops open a box labeled “TOWELS AND SHIT”.

El thrives with rules, and he does too, in a sense. Rules give them both structure and purpose. Dinner before dessert. Fruits and veggies before Eggos. Keep the door locked when he’s not there. Wait for the knocks. 

There’s no more need for bells and whistles, Morse code and deadbolts, not anymore. When Joyce Byers bursts through their front door without knocking, El jumps, eyes darting to Hop. Will and Jonathan follow her, all juggling ceramic dishes and cooking pots. 

“It’s just been sitting in that shed for years!” Joyce declares, motioning for her sons to set stuff down on kitchen counters. Rust and crust, dented and dinged. The pans are old and dirty, the dishes are chipped and dusty. Hopper thinks his parents had a similar dish set when he was growing up and he wonders how old these dishes can be.

“It’s not much,” Joyce says apologetically, rubbing her dirty hands on her work pants. “I was going to bring some of Will’s old clothes but—“ A pause and Joyce smiles at El fondly. “You might be bigger than he is!” Joyce’s hand is tentative but motherly as she runs it through El’s curls. El can duck out of the gesture if she wishes, and she knows Joyce won’t mind, but instead she finds herself leaning into it, smiling as an awkward laugh pops out of Joyce’s mouth. 

Joyce and the boys stay for dinner. It’s a group effort, as Hop and Joyce dictate orders to each other and a trio of eye-rolling teenagers. 

“You can’t _hack_ at garlic like that, Joyce,” Hop says, trying to ease the kitchen knife from her hands. “You have to _crush_ —“

“You say one more word about my cooking, Jim Hopper, and I’ll _crush_ you!”

They eat standing around counters. Hop didn’t anticipate that he would need a dining table capable of seating more than two. 


	2. Chapter 2

When he brought El home, he understood what he was getting himself into. When Sarah was born, he read every book on child care that he could find. Despite covers for corners and co-sleeping and everything else those books recommended, he lost Sarah. 

He didn’t see El as a second chance for being a father. His need to protect and serve had overridden any paternal instincts. But now, safe and free from harm, Hop realizes he’s a father to a little girl again.

Except this little girl is a psychic warrior prone to nightmares that cause lights to flicker and who’ll skip out on her chores because she can control a toilet brush with her mind. He has to make sure she eats a balanced diet, meaning he himself has to relearn how to make foods that aren’t frozen and prepackaged. After Eggos, her favorite foods are red licorice, crisp apple slices, and sticky peanut butter. She likes goodnight stories and drinks in fairy tales and fantasy novels, entranced as Hop reads her _The Hobbit_ before bed. She throws fits when she’s denied things and smiles brightly when she’s indulged. She’s no longer the underfed adolescent with uncontrolled emotions.

Jim Hopper has a teenage daughter to raise. A teenage girl stuck in boys’ clothes that don’t fit her; clunky knits pushed up her small arms and bagging jeans cuffed so she doesn’t trip.

On an unusually warm March afternoon, he calls Joyce. Out of habit, she answers the phone quickly, with a hint of alarm in her voice. 

“Hop?” Alarm fades into confusion, cordial but apparent. “Is— is everything okay?”

“I need you to do me a huge favor.”

Joyce picks up El the next weekend. El turns a quizzical brow at Hopper as Joyce fumbles with her purse outside the window.

“You need clothes.”

“I have clothes.”

Hop scrubs his palm over his face. “You need…things that I think it would be best if you went with Ms. Byers to get.”

“Like bras?”

“How do you—“ Hop doesn’t want to have this conversation. He just shoves some money into El’s hand and pushes her out the front door. 

“I don’t really care for the mall,” Joyce says as they drive outside of Hawkins. “It’s always crowded and the salesladies are also so _bitchy_ —“ she slaps a hand over her mouth and looks at El.

El laughs. 

El has a mother. She knows this. She makes an effort to visit Terry when she feels up to it. They don’t talk. Terry mumbles. El holds her hands for a few hours. She leaves, kisses Terry’s clammy forehead, and says “bye-bye, mama”. 

Terry will never help El do her hair, or buy her socks with laced cuffs. Terry will never buy her milkshakes or ask her what her favorite color is. 

But Joyce will. Joyce will mutter over the length of summer shorts, holding them against El’s legs and she shakes her head and grabs a longer pair. Joyce will ask her if she likes bracelets and asks if she wants her ears pierced. Joyce will look at rows of pastel fabrics, baby pink cotton and bubblegum blue polyester, and declare they should have brought Nancy along. 


	3. Chapter 3

El has Max, crass and blunt, and Nancy, soft and darling. 

Max comes over for a slumber party in the early summer. Her worn backpack is stuffed to the brim with VHS tapes and candy. She and El devour the candy, and pizza Hop ordered, and watch cheesy movies together. 

Hop has never seen two small things put so much food away. He knew early teens made him a big eater but it never occurred to him that two 13 year old girls could put away two large pizzas and still have room for a bag of licorice. He finds himself awkwardly bouncing between the living room, where the girls are thoroughly parked, and his bedroom, trying to finish the crossword in the papers. 

It’s a thankful departure when Flo calls him to say that Mr. Ericsson got stuck in his gutters. Again. 

If Hop is being honest, he’s not sure if Max is a good influence for El. She’s rude and short, rolls her eyes around authority and smacks bubblegum like she’s getting paid for it. But she’s fiercely defensive of El, and the rest of their party. El might be capable of crushing the brains of bullies, but Max straight-up headbutts a greasy 10th grader who tries to taunt El into making his fountain soda fly. 

They've popped into a gas station on the way to Mike Wheeler's birthday so Hop can buy cigarettes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the lump of a boy lifting his foam cup in front of El's unamused glare, laughing to his friends. 

"We all know you can do it," he goads. "Make it fly, you little shit!"

Hop tries to hold himself back. El is a big girl and he trusts her to use her words and communicate with him, just like they've worked on at home. Instead, he sees a flying flash of red as Max grabs the boy by the collar and slams her forehead into the boy's face. 

“You’re just a bunch of freaks!” he wails, holding his bloodied nose. "You and your stupid fucking friends!"

“ _Fuck_ you,” Max says sharply, ignoring the red mark on her forehead. 

Hop can see the word bubbling up in El’s mouth and shakes his head at her. She flushes in shame but settles for “mouth breather” as they leave.

(he gives Max a cold can of beer to hold against her forehead on the drive to the Wheeler's)

("no harm, no foul, Mr. Chief!" she says cheerfully)

(she can stay. for now.)

Nancy might be one hell of a shot but she’s too frilly and fussy for Hop to worry about her influence on El. As El’s hair grows (and grows, Hop notes. the girl needs a haircut every month, for Christ’s sake), Nancy shows her how to braid it or twist it up into a simple ponytail. El’s braids are never as neat as Nancy’s; her fingers are more clumsy, not used to such fine work, but she manages a simple French braid most days. Sometimes she gets mismatched dual rows of knotted braids, especially if she knows the Wheeler boy is going to be around.

Bobby pins. All over the house. How are they making their way into his _bedroom_? 

Sarah had been blonde, candyfloss fine hair that Hop could barely fit into pigtails. El has thick, dark hair, curled and difficult. She’s too old for Hop’s help doing her hair but there’s something endearingly childlike about her huffs and sighs as she tries to do her hair in the bathroom. She slams the wooden hairbrush down with a harsh clack and Hop sighs, hoping it doesn’t leave a mark.

(it does)


	4. Chapter 4

Joyce is a constant in their home, and Hop feels like a bad penny in hers. Ever since Will went missing and came back, Hop feels like they can’t untangle their lives anymore. 

(he remembers the last time he saw Joyce; he was called out to the apartment she shared with Lonnie after a domestic disturbance phoned in by a neighbor; Joyce was heavily pregnant with Jonathan and was screaming at Lonnie after she found a younger woman in their bed)

Time had been harsh to Joyce, a heavy small town weighed her down, but Hop still saw flashes of the Joy he knew in high school. Her gestures haven’t changed— the back of her hand pressed to her mouth as she snorts in laughter takes him back to Mr. Miller’s 4th period algebra when he sees it. Her eyes still roll sideways when she gossips, a drawn out “oh _god_ ”, and her smile is still bright but now more unsure, like she’s not sure quite how the gesture works anymore. 

They were both trouble in high school— volatile and dangerous to each other and those around them. Hop started fights and Joyce had pointed elbows to jab in the tender ribs of anyone who got on her bad side. 

Hop figures they’re different people now. Joyce Byers’ son may have come back from the dead but Jim Hopper’s daughter never will. Joyce smokes more than she did at 16, her hands have an almost constant tremor, but Hop still recognizes the curl of dark hair behind her ear and the softness of her voice, a soothing beacon against the storm in their town. 

Hop’s…not as athletic as he was in high school. He can’t remember the last time he was clean shaven. He stars drinking burnt black coffee at 6am and tries to remember to eat the fruit that Flo hides in his desk. 

At first, Joyce came over with helpful hands— pots and pans, old clothes for El to pick over, leftovers her boys won’t eat— but now it seems she comes over as a trade when El is at her house. Hop picks up Joyce when he drops El off, waving to her as she and the Wheeler boy think they’re being subtle when they join hands. 

It’s a sticky Saturday in the end of June and Joyce wears a faded green sundress that wraps itself awkwardly around her legs. The whole drive back to the duplex, Hop’s hand itches to put itself on that bouncing knee. 

“Are you going to enroll her at Hawkins High?” Joyce asks, legs folded under her. They’re on dingy porch furniture on the back porch, drinking large glasses of ice water. 

Hop awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. He knows El is smart and he has a parental obligation to put her in school. He just worries about her, especially when she runs with a crowd that’s been a target for bullies since the third grade. He’s also not sure if reading comprehension or geometry where on Brenner’s list of Things To Teach Your Weapon.

“I’m sure you could homeschool her,” Joyce offers, rubbing his arm softly. 

“I thought only the Amish homeschooled their kids,” he says with a chuckle.

Joyce drops her hand to his knee. He sees her flush an adorable shade of pink but she doesn’t move her hand. His palm is large and sweaty as he covers her hand with his own, but she doesn’t pull away. 

They sit like that in silence for an hour and some change, until El calls and says the boys are annoying her. 

(Hop dreams of Joyce that night. the images vanish like smoke when he tries to recall them in the morning, but it leaves him with a sense of warmth all day.)


	5. Chapter 5

Mike Wheeler needs a smack to the back of the head. The only thing stopping him is the fact that he remembers being 13 and staring at every girl who even got close to his line of vision. 

He catches the two of them kissing behind a shed during the Hawkins’ Fourth of July celebration. It’s awkward and clumsy, and all Hop manages is a booming “ _hey_!”, which causes them to jump apart, Mike furiously wiping the back of his hand against his mouth and El looking at her feet. 

As a punishment, he makes El stay by his side for the rest of the event. He even stays an extra two hours, making her sit through boring parades and schmoozes as a punishment. 

She may be a telekinetic former spy who can crush the minds of men with her brain, but she’s also a 13 year old girl. She likes goopy lip gloss and cheesy movies, stolen romance novels from Mrs. Wheeler that she tries to shove in between couch cushions and nail polish. 

He catches her preening in the bathroom mirror, trying on different outfits and looking at herself from different angles. He gets on her about cuffing her shorts too high. She rolls her eyes and unrolls the cuffs a fraction of an inch.

“El.”

Another inch.

“ _El_.”

“Fine!” she huffs, unrolling the shorts back to their knee length. “You’re such a—“

“Such a what, huh?”

She scoffs several times, fumbling for the word she wants. “You’re such a—“ another scoff. “—a _dad_!” she spits.

“Oh really?” he folds his arms in front of his chest. “Well, I might be a _dad_ but I’m also _your dad_ , okay? So while you live under _my_ roof, I’m not gonna let you out of this house dressed like some Chicago streetwalker. Do you understand me?”

She rolls her eyes and clenches her fists on her way to Max’s house, slamming the door behind her with an infuriated toss of her hand. 

Hop vaguely notes that’s the first time he’s seen her use her powers in weeks. 

Later that night, she’s oddly quiet during dinner. He thinks maybe she doesn’t care for her pasta (a new recipe he got from Mrs. Henderson), but as her fork stutters in her hand, she mumbles something he can’t understand.

“Speak up, honey,” he tells her.

“Are you my dad?”

The question punches Hop in the chest. He thinks back to her scolding this afternoon and knows it’s probably been weighing on her mind since. 

“I mean—“ he thinks briefly of Brenner, the man she called _Papa_. He knows Terry Ives, what’s left of her anyway, is her biological mother but he’s in the dark about who her real Papa might be. 

“I know,” she says. “I— Joyce told me about how babies are made."

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be your Papa,” he says, thinking about her words. 

At that, her hand clenches painfully around her fork. “You’re _not_ Papa.” Her rages makes the kitchen light flicker briefly, and Hop admits to a cold drop in his stomach at the powerful anger in her eyes. 

“I’m not… _him_ ,” Hop says, hands up defensively. “But I am your— I’m just— I wanna just—“ he sighs and stabs at his pasta in frustration.

“I know,” El smiles, rubbing his clenched fist with her small hand. “I know.”


	6. Chapter 6

El breaks the bathroom mirror after she tears open the letter sent from the Hawkins School District.

“Jane Hopper, we regret to inform you that you did not pass the placement exam with satisfactory marks. You are eligible to retake the exam in no less than 90 business days. Please feel free to contact us if you have any questions about the Hawkins School District.”

Hop knows he can’t do anything to console her. Instead he flinches and fights back tears as he hears El destroy their bathroom. She had her heart set on joining the rest of her friends on the first day of high school, but Hop knew it wasn’t going to happen three whole days before she did.

“Hop, someone on line 4 for ya,” Flo said, poking her head into the office. “Someone from the Hawkins Schoo—“

Hop cuts her off, fumbling with the phone and growling out a “yeah?!” into it.

“Hi, this is Mindy calling from Hawkins Scho—“

“Get to it, Mindy.”

A pause. He can almost hear Mindy blinking in shock on the end of the line. “We reviewed your daughter’s test scores and—“

“And?”

Mindy cleared her throat awkwardly twice. Another small “ahem” and, “Mr. Hopper, we believe that your daughter’s test scores place her somewhere between the 6th and 7th grade. We have several programs for her, including a highly praised program in—“

Hop hangs up on her. He sighs and scrubs his dirty hands over his face. El had studied so hard for that stupid exam and even insisted Hopper drop her off at the middle school auditorium 20 minutes early so she could make sure all of her pencils were sharpened and ready. When he picked her up again 3 hours later, she damn near skipped to the car. She babbled happily about Trapper Keepers and Peechee folders and scented markers all the way to the grocery store. 

Hopper made grilled chicken and grilled vegetables for dinner that night. El had hangups about meat— he’s not sure if Brenner ever gave her anything that wasn’t Brainwashed CIA Child Murderer Protein Powder— which was great for his cholesterol but upsetting to his red blooded Americana. Unlike Jim, who would eat anything, El’s relationship with food involved all of her senses. She liked mushrooms, but the sound of chewing them turned her off of them unless Hop snuck them into her food. She liked the crunch of asparagus, but later whispered to Hop that it made the bathroom smell funny. She liked burnt bacon smothered in syrup and crisp apples smeared with chunky peanut butter. She reluctantly ate mushy peas, eyes fixed on Jim like she was going to snap his neck while he slept. 

After El’s angry sobs died down, Hop went into the thrashed bathroom and found her curled up in the small space between the tub and the toilet. A dried trail of snot lead from her nose to upper lip and her eyes were bloodshot and watery. She mumbled something Hop didn’t catch. He crouched down next to her feet and patted her knee.

“You okay, kid?”

“Am I stupid?”

Hop sighed. “No, kid. It’s the…the system is stupid.”

“I failed.”

“You didn’t.”

She sniffed, a watery noise that tore Jim apart inside. 

“Kid,” he whispered. “Kid, look at me.”

She shook her head. “Please go.”

With a heavy heart, he stood and left, closing the door behind him.

Two hours and a pot of coffee later, Hop went back into the bathroom. El was asleep, awkwardly cradled in the fetal position. Carefully, as if she were a doll, Hop picked her up in his arms. Even after months of good care and food, she still weighed nothing. He carried her to her bedroom and put her in her bed. He took her dirty Converse off and pulled the blanket over her shoulders before shutting the lights off and closing the door. 

Safely in the darkened comfort of his own bedroom, he left himself sit on the edge of his unkempt bed and sob. 


	7. Chapter 7

The recommendation of Steve Harrington comes from Lucas. El breaks the news to her friends as they eat microwaved popcorn and watch bad Halloween movies. 

“You should ask Steve to help you,” Lucas says, lanky arm wrapped around Max’s freckled shoulders. “He helps tutor my sister sometimes. 

“And he could help you do your hair,” Dustin offers with a purr. El laughs and throws a handful of popcorn at him. 

(Hop will never admit it but the sound of El laughing is one of his favorite noises; a bright and clear bubble of joy to show she hasn’t been destroyed by what she’s done)

The Harrington kid had made the weirdest turn around Hop had ever seen. He was Steve Harrington back in high school— a cocky piece of hot shit. But then everything happened and Steve was almost a local folk hero. He helped part time at a food bank and openly debated people running for office about taxes and medical care. He and Nancy had been detained at a protest in Indianapolis about gender inequality. Jonathan tried to stop him from confronting a coworker who had mocked him and Will but Steve followed the man (older, balding, ignorant) to his car, shouting about how he needed to educate himself before he opened his mouth and insulted people.

And? He loved kids.

Steve came by three nights later with a canvas shoulder bag full of books from the Hawkins Library.

“I didn’t know where to start,” he admits, flushing up to his bouncing coif as he pulls a copy of _Phonetics for Third Graders!_ out of his bag. “So I grabbed a little of everything.”

El is good with math, geometry and algebra coming easy to her. History is rough, but she snatches _American History: A Guide To Teaching Sixth Graders_ out of Steve’s hands, engrossed with facts about the pilgrims and pioneers. She reads at an acceptable level for her age, but she asks Steve how to do better. She’s still unsure about grammar and spellings. Her handwriting is atrocious but she likes the loops of cursive, writing “El Hopper” a half dozen times in blue gel pen. 

“You write like a doctor,” Steve scoffs lightly.

“Or a cop,” Jim offers.

“She must get that from you.”

El giggles.

If Hop didn’t know any better, he would suspect El had herself a crush on Steve. She sloppily applied pink blush and red lipgloss before his third visit. She awkwardly rubbed her legs together under the table, dark eyes starry whenever Steve spoke to her directly. Steve gave her nothing more than academic validation and brotherly affection, calling her “kid” and ruffling her hair when she completed difficult problems. He tactfully ignored her batting eyelashes and awkward reaches for his hands. 

Mondays and Wednesdays are science, Tuesdays and Fridays are for English and reading. Steve gives her photocopied assignments to do on Thursdays and on the weekend. She hangs a secondhand periodic table up in her room, an old thing of Nancy’s, and reads C.S. Lewis at the dinner table. 

“El,” Hop warns, trying to snatch the battered paperback out of her hands.

“Hang _on_ ,” she snaps, twisting back.

“ _El_.”

She makes a mocking noise and turns the page.

“Jane!”

“ _God_!” she whines, shoving the book under her leg.

“Don’t forget— it’s your turn for dishes.”

She rolls her eyes but soaps and scrubs the dishes afterwards. 


End file.
